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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828393">mind and body</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/feojpeg/pseuds/feojpeg'>feojpeg</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Guns, Heartbreak, Museums, Unsatisfying work relationship, Yoga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:53:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/feojpeg/pseuds/feojpeg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Moran ponders his life choices, and most times he just chooses things without sparing a single thought. It's a personal flaw, but one that he had always kind of worked around.<br/>Problem is, his boss is kind of fed up with it. </p><p>(rewritten and improved! its good now source(s): dude trust me)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irene Adler/Sebastian Moran, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>mind and body</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i posted the first version of this earlier this year when i had a sudden boost of motivation but you know what happened then! anyways im trying to find myself creatively again and also i kind of want to say bye to this fandom officially cause sometimes you just gotta move on. so here it is. the final product, of course un-beta-d and only skimmed for typos and stuff, because i'm me.<br/>stay healthy, take care. whatever you're doing, i believe in you. you can do it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His eyes could not stay still. There was not much going on in the small cafe, few tables waited and fewer people getting coffee to go, but the place, the quiet stirred in him a crazed energy. It made his ears go deaf and set his nerves on fire.</p><p>Moriarty knows this. Yet – or, that exactly is why he remains silent himself. His stare is glued to the window, the street beyond. People are passing by, just few and fewer. It is just past two in the afternoon, the majority of London sat at their desk at their dayjob, earning precious money to feed their spouses and families like little goons without ambitions.</p><p>Sometimes he wishes he had gotten a normal job. Not because he did not like this, the constant excitement just before or the tremble just after, wild eyes looking at him like prey before his huge statue, babbling tongues and hands raised at him in some sort of angsty attempt to compromise, save their asses off the hot coals of hell.</p><p>No, it is the meetings with his boss.</p><p>Once a week, always in a different setting. Acting like they were normal. Moriarty drinks tea, white, while he takes his coffee black.</p><p>His new years resolution had been to stop the coffee, or at least get used to decaf. But he had found, just two weeks after, that he at least deserved some normal coffee if he already could not get any other chance to indulge himself in anything usual.</p><p>„There.“</p><p>He looks. The street is still mostly empty. „What?“</p><p>„Open your eyes, Moran.“</p><p>He glances over to Moriarty, who is staring intently right across the street. There is a bit of stubble on his jaw. It suits his profile. Sensing Moran‘s gaze, he shifts his focus over to him. There is annoyance in his eyes. It is nothing new at this point.</p><p>He looks again, 90 degrees over. A flower shop. Pink and green neon sign displaying cursive letters. There are tables with plants on display out front. „You wanna start a garden, or...“</p><p>„You‘re the most stupid I‘ve ever met," Moriarty snaps. "<em>The woman</em>.“<br/>The woman is standing next to the outer display, looking at the flowers. She has a grey bike by her side, which has got a basket full of groceries fastened to the front. She is wearing dungarees over a striped t-shirt. Her hair is done in a braid, but it appears to be so curly that it springs free at every angle. „What‘s with her?“</p><p>Moriarty‘s gaze is burning with impatience.</p><p>He looks back at the man. „… well? <em>What‘s up</em> with her?“</p><p>Moriarty sips at his tea. It must have gone cold by now. Sure enough, he puts it back down and shoves the little plate away from himself. „You‘ll go out with her. I will give you three weeks. I want to know where her brother is and you will find it out.“</p><p>„How am I going out with her?“ He looks back at the flower shop, but could only just see the rear of her bike disappear around the next corner. „How will I find her to ask? She‘s just gone away. Am I goint to go 'round asking everybody if they seen her like a missing person? You need to help me up here.“</p><p>A small card flies across the table. He frowns but picks it up nonetheless. It is white and blue and green and in some kind of flowy font was written,</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Yoga</p>
  <p>uniting mind and body</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Mon – Thu: 18 – 19.30</p>
  <p>Fri + Sat: 19.45 – 21.15</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He flips the card. On the backside is a photograph of some woman smiling with a water bottle in her hand. He flips the card back and reads again. „What‘s this?“</p><p>Moriarty, the bastard, he just smiles a sickly sweet smile. „You look rather tense anyway. Always with the fidgeting, high held shoulders and clenched jaw. It doesn‘t look good, Moran. Bad posture tells a lot about the business, but we are no bad business, are we now? Give it a go. I have got you a month on trial.“</p><p>He stares. „You‘re not serious. This is for her, she will be there.“</p><p>Moriarty rolls his eyes. „Of course she will be. Still means you will participate, and you will better be serious about it. I heard she liked earnesty, so you‘re going to have to tone down your cynism, or she‘ll decline. You don‘t want her to decline, Moran, because I want that information.“</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>So this is how it is going to be then.</p><p>He pushes open the glass doors and steps into the building, into the fluorescent lights and out of the early spring night.</p><p>An elderly woman scrubs the floor at the entrance. She does not look at him as he passes her but he ears her dissatisfied muttering when she sees his work boots step full-on on the freshly mopped floor.</p><p>The building is mostly dark, many overhead lights already turned off except for single hallways. He follows the light until he finds the dressing rooms.</p><p>Two doors, no gender markers. He hears women laughing behind one of them, bright and clear, and imagines the one in the middle of a group of some faceless other women, yoga pants on and struggeling to get into her sports bra. He goes into the other door. The dressing room is dark and empty except for one neat little bundle of clothes near the door. He turns on the light and puts down his bag at the other end of the bench.</p><p> </p><p>Moriarty had gotten him clothes for the occasion. The mere thought of the little man, in the middle of some nameless store, giggling like a child between stands full of sports clothes, has his pulse go up in some kind of irrational anger. That little bastard. That absolute goblin of a boss. He hates him, sometimes.</p><p>His teeth are clenched as he puts on the clothes. They fit well and do not look half bad but it still does not sit right with him. Yoga. <em>Yoga</em>. Is the modern woman even still interested in yoga? Are they not supposed to be into things like motor sport nowadays, for the sake of all that equality?</p><p>The talking and laughing gets louder. God, how many of them are there? Does he even still know what his target looked like? The women pass the door. One of them is talking about her dog. He hopes that it was not <em>the</em> woman. He can not deal with animals.</p><p>The sound of a heavy gym door opening and falling closed. Silence.</p><p>He slips into his trainers. One day he would pull the rope tight around Moriarty's throat like the shoelaces in his hands. He leaves the dressing room and follows into the gym hall.</p><p>Whatever banter was happening about anybodys dog falls quiet as the women turn to see who joined their evening get-together. Humiliating. Moriarty must be laughing into his fist right now.</p><p>„Hello,“ he provides into the silence. „This is … this is Yoga, right?“</p><p>The women, there are six of them – one, tiny and thin like a stick. She has short hair and wears a neon green t-shirt. Two, short as well but with hips as wide as his shoulders probably. Three, she is tall and has a funny face, all angled sideways in some kind of weird way. Four and five are twins but beyond that nothing short of average.</p><p>Six is her. She is turned away and hunches over a gym bag on the floor. He could not see her face, but there is no mistaking the curly shock of hair.</p><p>Finally, one of them – the short, wide one – snaps out of it. „Well, yes, of course! Welcome, young man.“ She smiles and clasps her hands.</p><p>He smiles back.</p><p>She comes closer. „What a surprise! You see, we don‘t see many men in our little course here. But of course, it‘s open to everybody, so we are very happy to have you. My name is Maru, I‘m the trainer.“ She holds out her hand.</p><p>He takes it, makes sure to do so very softly, and shakes it once. „Sebastian. Thanks and all. I‘m very curious. Haven‘t done anything like this before.“</p><p>Her smile only grows wider at that. „Don‘t you worry, Sebastian, we‘ll pick you right up where you are.“</p><p>The others snicker. He wonders if the building is fireproof.</p><p> </p><p>Warm up consists of five rounds of running around the little hall. He cannot help finishing first and adding two extra rounds just to equal out with them. He can see Maru smile about it at the sideline. They follow up with a bunch of basic excersises and finally go to put down the mats in a row.</p><p>Maru has her mat in front of them. His target is two mats away to his right.</p><p>„All right, ladies! … and gentleman!“ She looks at him and laughs. He wrings a smile out of his face. „Okay, let‘s calm down a little. Sit down on the mat, nice and comfy. Feel the ground under yourself and align yourself to a nice, tall posture.“</p><p>He watches as she sits down cross-legged on her mat and straightens her back. Quiet shuffeling is heard from next to him. He follows silently.</p><p>„Very good. Feel your bones align with the ground. When you found your seat, flip your palms.“</p><p>He does.</p><p>„Flip your palms and raise your heart. Very nice, yes. And now close your eyes and take a deep breath, the deepest one you‘ve taken all day.“</p><p>Breathing deeply is good. He can do that quite well. You learn it early when you are shooting long-range.</p><p>„On your next inhale, grow a little bit taller. Think about your day. Think about everything that happened to you today, let it replay in your mind. And when you exhale… just breathe it all out...“</p><p>Maru has her eyes closed, just like she instructed. Very cute. He glances just barely to the side. For a split second he sees her moving behind the funny-looking woman. She has her eyes closed as well. Her cheekbones are higher than he expected and her lips are thin. <em>Sharp</em>. She has a very sharp face.</p><p>Her eyes flutter open. He closes his just in time.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Irene. That‘s her name. She is sweaty and giggly when she tells him on the way back to the dressing rooms.</p><p>„Hey,“ she says, coming up from behind.</p><p>He slows down immediately to let her catch up.</p><p>„Sebastian.“ His name sounds weird from her tongue.</p><p>He‘s been to the class five times now but still he had never heard her talk before, hadn‘t even really seen her face up close. Her eyes are green and she has very white teeth. He is too taken aback to respond and she obviously likes it.</p><p>„I‘m Irene. Let‘s get a coffee some time“, she grins.</p><p>„I‘d love to“, he replies right away.</p><p>They stop in front of the dressing room doors.</p><p>„Great. Let me get your number then. I‘ll wait out here for you“, she declares, and when he comes back out properly dressed, she is indeed still there.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He carefully plucks an eyelash from her cheek.</p><p>„Make a wish,“ he whispers.</p><p>A smile tugs at her lips, but her eyes stay closed. „Wish you‘d let me sleep longer than eight, just once.“ Her voice is all slured and heavy.</p><p>He blows the eyelash off his finger for her and wonders if he is losing himself a little bit in this game. „There you go,“ he says, „go back to sleep. I‘ll get to work.“</p><p>Her eyes flutter open at that, suddenly attentive and clear. „Already? No, stay!“ She sounds somewhat betrayed. It makes him smile.</p><p>„‘ve got to. Much to do. Boss‘d kill me.“ It‘s true, and the way that she wouldn‘t know makes his fingers tingle in excitement. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face.</p><p>She wraps her arms around his waist and presses herself against him. Her skin is very warm. He was always somewhat cold, even under the covers. Her lips brush over his neck, up under his chin and he smile.</p><p>„That‘s unfair.“</p><p>„You‘re just mad that I found your buttons,“ she whispers before gently biting the spot under his jaw.</p><p>His eyes slip closed. „Maybe I am,“ he sighs. It‘s not that late yet, is it? Just a few more minutes. He threads his fingers through her hair. She throws a leg over his hips and takes a seat on top of him, the blanket pooling down over her legs and revealing her white, unblemished skin. Just like that there is only her again, her and the contrast of his dark hands on her porcelain thighs.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>„I haven‘t heard you complain in a while, Moran. Seems like it grew on you.“</p><p>They are walking down the street towards the gallery, Moriarty with long strides and himself following just a little bit behind. It almost could have been warm that day, but the wind is just a tad too strong for it to be really comfortable. It cuts through every layer of clothing he wears and he can feel the stiffness collect in his neck.</p><p>Moriarty could not have seemed more unaffected. One hand in his coat pocket, the other one holding a cigarette, his head is held as high as ever as the crowds part before him like he was some kind of king. Nobody knows him – that is part of his job to make sure of – but Moran knew all too well the effect of Moriarty‘s mere presence. It is indescribable, yet so clear and apparent that even the dirty little teenage pickpockets make a huge circle around him.</p><p>Moriarty goes on, „if you‘re interested in continuing these little sessions, I‘ll gladly sign you up in some other club after this job. I cannot deny that I like how you hold yourself recently.“</p><p>He couldn‘t help a little sneer at that. „Don‘t know what you‘re talking about. I don‘t hold myself any different.“ Whatever that is supposed to mean.</p><p>„I think you do. Get out the money.“ The cigarette, half-finished, is flicked to the side and then he is up the stairs to the entrance.</p><p> </p><p>The air inside is just typical for a museum – not too dry, not too hot, medium in every aspect, perfect for all the precious, precious artworks displayed. It makes his nose itch as soon as they step inside.</p><p>„Do you want to see anything specific?“ It is his best attempt at casuality. He finds galleries to be the dullest places on earth.</p><p>Moriarty himself does not even try to hide his boredom. „No. We‘ll check out Gallery Two and Three. Then we‘ll get something at the gift shop.“ With that he is off. Moran follows suit.</p><p>Gallery Two is the largest room in the building. White walls, dark, polished tiles you could see yourself in, gold-framed paintings and some statues on podests lined up in the middle. He watches Moriarty‘s reflection move along on the ground in front of him. They wander around in silence for a while.</p><p>„Do you think you‘re getting close to her?“ He just barely hears the question, as Moriarty usually does not bother turning around to speak to him directly. With two large strides he catches up with him again.</p><p>„Think so. I think she likes having me around.“</p><p>„Good. What do you talk about?“</p><p>Moran shrugs, as one does. „Trivial things. Food and sports. I complain a lot about my boss, so she talked about her job. She‘s a library assistant.“</p><p>Moriarty stops in front of one of the paintings. It depicts a white, frozen lake and dozens of dark little figures ice skating in front of a sunrise. He does not acknowledge the taunt. „Not important. I could have told you that. What else?“</p><p>„She does like ice skating.“ Sensing Moriarty‘s growing disapproval, he adds, „I asked about the possibility of skating over someones hand and cutting it off, you know, like the idiot I‘m supposed to play. She found it rather funny. Said that she would try if I found her a victim.“ Funny enough, it was that moment that he had clearly remembered that Moriarty was ambidextrous.</p><p>„God, Moran. If you‘re playing an idiot, you‘re proving yourself to be a born actor,“ Moriarty mutters. He turns and goes to the next painting and Moran follows. Three women sitting on a checkered picknick blanket.</p><p>„Told me she‘s grown up in New York. Came over to go to university and never left again.“ He watches Moriarty scan the painting with empty eyes. „She wants to get a cat. Told her she should name it Andrew or something. She hated that.“ Something in Moriarty‘s jaw jumps. They move to the next painting. This one is just a blue gradient. Moriarty skips it immediately.</p><p>"Listen, she just doesn't talk family", Moran sighs. "I don't know how to get her to. Told her all about mine already, too, don't even know what to say anymore about them. 's not like I've got much to talk about."</p><p>"And yet you can't seem to shut up about your idiotic banter."</p><p>"You asked about it, didn't you?" That gets him a glare. They are silent for the rest of their stay.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They pull the doors shut and he starts the engine of his car. Irene heaves a sigh and sinks into the passenger seat. „God, I feel like someone almost pulled out my leg.“</p><p>He smiles. „You did bend a whole lot further than Maru expected. I‘m surprised it didn‘t pop out or anything.“</p><p>She chuckles at that. „It did. I definitely heard it pop. I might have to go to the doctor‘s tomorrow.“</p><p>He gets the car out of the parking lot and onto the streets. „We‘ll see. Maybe I‘ll be able to get you there.“</p><p>She rubs her knee as she watches him drive. „You‘ll need to go to work though.“</p><p>„I‘d rather watch over you.“ Her, instead of Moriarty.</p><p>She turns to the side, cheek against the headrest. „You already do. Don‘t think I didn‘t notice. I know you never close your eyes when Maru says so, you‘re too stubborn for that.“</p><p>Too careful, he would say, but of course he does not. It still makes him feel something. „I should be allowed to. You‘re too beautiful not to watch.“</p><p>She is silent after that, but when he looks over at her at the next red light, she is still smiling at him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Moriarty wears a blue t-shirt and grey pants. No watch, no jacket. His hair is not done. He looks kind of juvenile. Moran feels tempted to call him by his first name.</p><p>Moriarty is on his phone and has been that way for at least 30 minutes. Occassionally he taps his fingernails on the table or lets out a tiny but very expressive sigh, but otherwise he is absolutely quiet.</p><p>Moran had finished his coffee about 20 minutes ago but did not dare to set it back on the saucer, worried that the clinking of the porcelain might set Moriarty off completely.</p><p>The man is on edge and one could see it clearly. His lips are pressed together in a very thin line, his eyes fixed at the piece of paper in front of him as if trying to set it on fire. Something in his jaw jumps. Moran wondered if this was about him, about his absolute lack of information about the target, but dismisses the thought after another few minutes of being completely ignored.</p><p>He throws what he hopes would be a subtle glance at his wrist watch. Sunken in thought about what he could get done instead of sitting here, he does not notice how the turn of his hand lets the cup clink against the saucer in his lap.</p><p>Moriarty's eyes immediatly fix on him and the air shifts like a gunshot had gone off. "Shut <em>up!</em>", the man screams, and the phone in his hand comes flying right at him. Moran ducks to the side and hears it crack on the expensive hardwood flooring behind him. "Shut your stupid mouth, I'll burn it off your face if you don't shut up already!"</p><p>He quickly sits up straight again and offers a small and quiet, „sorry, Boss,“ but it is, again, the wrong thing to say.</p><p>Moriarty springs up. His voice is even louder than the crack of the tabletop as he smacked his hands on the surface repeatedly. „I said shut up! You idiot, waste of flesh! I'll gut you, I'll cook you up, make you be useful for once in your stupid little life!"</p><p>He stares at Moriarty's own coffee cup. The porcelain clinkes and the dark, cold liquid sloshes over the rim every time his boss makes contact with the wood. He keeps quiet while Moriarty throws his tantrum.</p><p> </p><p>He gets kicked out of the office just about two minutes later and thinks to himself, what a successful meeting. He doesn‘t even know the reason behind Moriarty‘s episode. At the same time he has to ask himself if he really cares, though. He makes his way down to the sitting room.</p><p>Archer is there. A bulky, strong man at 1,95 metres, he‘s the biggest of them all. He got called „a wardrobe and a couch table“ once by one of the girls and everyone somehow had to agree with the picture that it painted. When Moran enters the room, he sits up.</p><p>„You‘ve been up there? He still grumpy?“</p><p>Moran nods shortly. „Threw his phone. What‘s with him? Didn‘t get his pastries on time today?“</p><p>Archer snorts without humor in his eyes and shakes his head. „Watch what you‘re saying, Moran. He wouldn‘t like that much. But no, it‘s the new IT guy he got. Poor lad needs the passcodes and all so he‘s got to ask a lot of questions.“</p><p>Moriarty and questions. Yeah, he thinks. A poor lad that guy is. „You‘ve met him already? What‘s he saying?“</p><p>Archer shrugs. „Seems as regular as you could. Bland, if you will. Wears glasses and all that. Doesn‘t talk much.“</p><p>„Maybe he‘s insecure.“</p><p>„Maybe he should be. Wouldn‘t want him to get too comfortable right away.“</p><p>Archer looks at him in a way he does not like. He nods. „That‘s right. I‘ll see if I can find him. Bid him welcome and all.“</p><p>Archer, of course, has known him for too long to respond anything else than „please yourself.“</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Something weird happens when he enters the lad's little office.</p><p>Being the IT guy for Moriarty is a shitty job if you look beyond the payment. Horrendous hours, collegues that avoid you – lest they accidently find out something that the boss does not want them to know about – a superior that is constantly on the verge of murdering you and the dingiest office in the whole building. At the very least Moriarty seems to be holding some kind of grudge against any person that can deal with technology better than he can, if not against technology as a whole.</p><p>As it is, he already hears it through the paperthin door as he is nearing the office but he does not actually register much about it except that it kind of sounds like the guy is watching a romance movie in there. When upon entry the sound is cut off and the guy's wide eyes, illuminated only by all three of his desktop screens, are fixed on him with some kind of nervous energy, he asks himself if he really cares what the guy does in here. Everyone does some stuff on the clock that they are not supposed to. It is, ultimately, none of his business.</p><p>He leans against the doorframe and flicks on the light switch. "Light's working, you know."</p><p>It seems to snap the lad out of his shock. He blinks twice against the sudden light, then pushes up his glasses. "Yeah, well, actually-"</p><p>The lights flicker, then go out. The guy does not seem surprised about this.</p><p>Moran looks up at the LED tubes, flicks off the switch, then on again. The lights spring back to life and, after a few seconds, turn off again. It does amuse him a little bit. He fixes his gaze back at the lad. "What's your name?"</p><p>He looks confused, pauses for a moment, but then replies, "Henry."</p><p>"Well, Henry, want to come grab a bite while someone fixes this?"</p><p>Henry glances at his screens, back at Moran, then at the phone thats lying next to his keyboard. He shakes his head. "Actually I'm kind of in the middle of something."</p><p>Moran smiles. "If you're waiting for a call back, boss broke his phone."</p><p>That seems to deflate him. He contemplates another few seconds, then starts mumbling to himself. "Well... been here all morning... working in the dark isn't good for the eyes anyways..." He stands up, grabs a jacket from the back of his flimsy classroom chair and stuffs the phone into it's pocket. "But not for too long. I don't want to mess up my first job here."</p><p>They leave the room and head down to the caretaker's quarters. Henry tells him on the way that the light has been broken since he started here two weeks ago and nobody had answered his requests to get it fixed. He says that after the third attempt he was too scared to ask again. Moran does not tell him that that was a very smart choice. They get the caretaker on his way and proceed to get smoothies at the corner shop down the street. When Henry is not looking, Moran tops off his smoothie with some liquor out of his pocket flask.</p><p>Henry talks about how he got this job, the special food he can now afford for his cat, paying off his sister's college loan. Moran sips his smoothie and lets himself be talked at for a good half hour before Henry's phone rings. The guy jumps up and rushes to answer it, but relaxes instantly when it is only the caretaker reporting the issue as fixed. "Well," he says after ending the call, "I'd better head back before it's someone else calling. Thanks for helping out, Sebastian. I appreciate it."</p><p>Moran nods. "Sure."</p><p>As Henry leaves, Archer's voice comes back to him. <em>Doesn‘t talk much.</em> <em>Wouldn‘t want him to get too comfortable right away.</em></p><p>He contemplates the little spring in Henry's step, wonders if that is what uncomfortable looks like on the guy. To him it seems like Henry knew his way around him pretty fast.</p><p>When he realises that night, throwing himself around in his empty bed and thinking about all the times in his life that he fucked up, that Henry got used to him so quickly because he had obviously already <em>dealt</em> with him on some level, that the sound coming through the thin office door had been his own voice, a somewhat distorted, pixelated version of his conversation with Irene not long ago, he started wondering if maybe Moriarty was right, and he is indeed becoming somewhat of a useless idiot.</p><p><em>You‘re just mad that I found your buttons</em> , he hears her voice in his head. <em>Maybe I am</em>, he answers, but his voice sounds like Moriarty's.</p><p>He does not fall asleep that night.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The coffee has gone cold half an hour ago. He does not try to be late but when he sits at the kitchen table in his bare little flat and watches the hands of the clock creep towards quarter to nine he does not really feel afraid enough to hurry up. Something irks him, something bothers him so much to remain calmly seated in his cheap plastic chair.</p><p>He has not been to yoga in three days and she has not called him once.</p><p>Maybe he is useless. Maybe he is an idiot. But he is not <em>blind</em>.</p><p>Not yet, at least.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Twenty minutes into the meeting he slips into the room and takes the seat next to the door. Nobody looks at him.</p><p>Some guy from the chem department talks about explosives in front of the vintage chalkboard. It sounds somewhat important, if not outright deadly, but Moriarty, somewhere in the middle of the long table, types away on his phone. Nobody looks at him either. Nobody has to look at him to know he is there.</p><p>He watches him for a second, but turns away before anyone would notice.</p><p>His phone vibrates. His heart stops for a moment, then picks up the pace.</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Get out. Wait in my office.</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>This time, when he gets up, all eyes are on him except one pair. He shuts the door quietly behind himself.</p><p> </p><p>*<br/><br/></p><p>„You're done with her,“ Moriarty says before he even shuts the door behind himself. His voice is so cold that Moran could not even think to reply, only sit up straight in the uncomfortable chair in front of the desk. „I should have known even this is too much for your birdbrain.“</p><p><em>That</em> gets him. „Too much for my...? What‘s that supposed to mean?“ He is not even trying to hide his hurt.</p><p>Moriarty goes to his desk but does not sit down. He puts his hands on the cracked wood – Moran heard about the new desk, fancy designer furniture all the way from Italy, being caught up in customs - and leans forward. „It‘s supposed to mean that I should have known you'd be distracted by a bloody pair of tits dangling in front of your eyes the whole time, you daft, horny idiot. There‘s twenty-four girls in this goddamn house for you to fuck around with, but you still get it into your head to get your bloody target pregnant.“</p><p>„I don‘t-!“</p><p>Moriarty‘s hand slams down on the table. „Shut up!,“ he screams, except this time that does not stop Moran from raising his voice himself.</p><p>„It wasn‘t a problem before, for fuck's sake! Why do you care about it now?“</p><p>„I said, shut the fuck up, Moran!“ There is a click, and then there is a gun in Moriarty‘s hand, or maybe it was the other way around. For a second, things blur in front of his eyes, then reappear razorsharp. He can see little scratches on the side of the muzzle.</p><p>He leans back into the chair, hands clamped tightly on the armrests and mouth kept obediently shut.</p><p>Moriarty‘s hand is still, the barrell of the gun not wavering even a little bit as he circles the table and comes to a halt in front of him. The gun is aimed between his eyes, right in front of him. He could easily disarm the man. Why does he not do it?</p><p>When Moriarty speaks, his voice is quiet and soft and laced with venom, yet somehow the taste of something else leaks into his tone. Something personal. „Don't think I haven't heard, Moran. Don't think I don't <em>know. </em>No, I didn't care before. Why should I care if this whole fucking house hates me?"</p><p>"Working climate, maybe-" The gun clanks painfully against his teeth as Moriarty shoves it in his mouth before he even finishes speaking. He gags heavily. The metal of the barell is ice cold and heavy on his tongue and it tastes like every wrong decision in his life.</p><p>He wonders how eyes the colour of hot chocolate could be so cold. He wonders if Moriarty really considers it. He wonders if death might be the better option.</p><p>As it is, Moriarty smacks Moran's hand away from the armrest and leans forward onto it, pushing the barell further down Moran's throat.</p><p>He fights to draw in a steady breath, buries his nails in his thigh, wills himself not to let his eyes water.</p><p>"No matter how much you hated me, no matter how much you loathed yourself for it, you would have come back to me. You're <em>mine</em>. I never thought I'd someday need to remind you of it." He shakes his head in disappointment. "God, I never thought you idiot would fall in love."</p><p>He wants to protest and he knows that Moriarty can sense it. He can see his finger twitch over the trigger. He knows the decision is made. It is only a matter of time now.</p><p>His keeping quiet seems to calm Moriarty a little bit. Excruciatingly slowly he withdraws the gun, the metal now shiny with spit. Their eyes are fixed on each other, only inches away, as he raises the gun to his mouth and licks a wide stripe up the barrell.</p><p>Moran's stomach turns. He draws in a shaky breath. "Why did you send <em>her</em>?"</p><p>The grin that spreads over Moriarty's face chills his blood. He almost seems delighted that they are finally on the same page, that Moran finally caught up to him, but still there is that dark, raging edge to the twinkle of his eyes. "What, wasn't she the perfect choice? Don't I know you inside out by now, Sebastian?"</p><p>"Don't act like it was all your doing. I volunteered after all." Her voice cuts through the room right into his heart. He pushes himself up in the chair, cranes his neck to the door before he can even think about it, but Moriarty presses the gun to the arch of his eyebrow before he can get a look at her.</p><p>"Eyes on me, Sebastian, or I'll blow them out of your skull," he purrs.</p><p>"What-", he starts, <em>tries</em> to start, but where should he even begin?</p><p>Her heels – he has never seen her wear heels – clack sharply on the hardwood floor as she comes closer, circles him, comes to stand beside Moriarty. He does not dare look at her when one of his eyes is staring directly into the barrell of the gun, but in his peripheral vision he can make out the dark green of her dress and the way she holds herself next to them. It does not take a critical eye to make out how she played him like a whistle. It does not even take two normal ones.</p><p>The look of betrayal on his face must be dazzling, because Moriarty belts out a cruel laugh and shakes his head. "You really want to be the one to talk, Sebastian? I gave you everything. I gave you more than you could ever want, and I just wanted one-", he holds a single finger right in front of Moran's other eye, "thing, one little thing, Sebastian, something that you could give me in your <em>sleep</em> ," he spits. "And you take what you owe me and lay it down at the feet of some random <em>bitch</em>!" He pinches his fingers and flings them at Irene.</p><p>Moran does not dare follow his fingers. It takes a lot of willpower, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the stonecold eyes that have locked him in the chair. He opens his mouth slightly, expecting to be shut down again, but when Moriarty stays quiet he just about manages to whisper his question.</p><p>"Why haven't you killed me yet?"</p><p>In the corner of his eye, he can see Irene shift.</p><p>Moriarty's eyebrows rise, just for a moment, before he smiles his sickly sweet smile again. "Why, aren't you quick to catch on. You see," he stands up, releases him from the grip of his eyes, and withdraws the gun from Moran's face once again. He turns to fix his burning gaze on Irene and his voice turns ice cold. "You're not the only one that disappointed me."</p><p>He looks at her just then, cannot help himself, and catches the exact moment that her expression changes for just a moment – it is gone as soon as he really registers what he saw. Terror.</p><p>This is Moriarty's game, has been all along, of course. And she is just as simple a player on the field as he is.</p><p>Irene returns Moriarty's stare blankly, but when she speaks her voice is unsteady. "I did what you told me to."</p><p>Moriarty smiles. "You did, and you did very well. You proved to me that I can forgive you."</p><p>He can see her swallow, can see her think. "Well...," she starts weakly.</p><p>"Well?" Moriarty turns back to him. "Don't you think he deserves a chance to prove his learning curve as well?" He holds the gun up at him.</p><p>It does not register with him at first, but as he slowly processes the words that were spoken he realises that the gun is no longer <em>pointed</em> <em>at him</em> but hangs loosely in Moriarty's outstretched hand, the handle ready for him to take.</p><p>He stares at it. The room is silent as the meaning of the gesture dawns on both Irene and Sebastian. He looks up at her.</p><p>She is staring at the gun.</p><p>He looks up to Moriarty, standing still before him, eyes quietly resting on him. There is no mercy in them.</p><p>This is his game and he decides on the winner.</p><p>He takes the gun. The weight feels natural in his hand, yet the implication of it rests heavy on his shoulders.</p><p>"Sebastian." Her voice shakes. Moriarty is silent.</p><p>He does not check the magazine, nor does he check if it is loaded. He knows it is.</p><p>As he pushes himself up, the chair gives a little creak that almost drowns out her sob. He grips the gun tightly and points it at her, but when he sees the silent tears running down her cheeks his arms give away. "Irene," he whispers. Stop, he thinks.</p><p>She shakes her head. "Please, Sebastian. Please. I love you." Her eyes are wide and shining with big, heavy tears. Her hands are gripping the front of her dress. She is so beautiful that it makes him feel like he is already dead, like she is telling the truth.</p><p>
  <em> I love you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you, too. </em>
</p><p>He could turn. He could do it. Shove the cold metal against the skull that deserves it and blow out that brain that holds itself so high above them. They could be together, here. They could not run the company, of course, but without him, who is there to fear? Who is there to run from? But as the thought crosses his mind, he knows that he had made that decision long ago. There is no use in pretending that there is still a choice.</p><p>He shakes his head. Raises the gun again. "You don't. Don't be stupid."</p><p>"I do! I do, Sebastian, I do," she sobs and goes to step closer, but she must see something shift in his expression. She stops at once, tears not quite drying up but no sobs left to give. She presses her lips in a thin line and when she speaks up again, there is an unnerving amount of control behind the fear for her life. "It won't do, Sebastian. You know it."</p><p>He knows it. Or does he? He cannot know. He can only guess. Or can he?</p><p>"It won't do, you kill me, he kills you! We're both dead, Sebastian, we're both gone!" Her voice cracks.</p><p>He stays silent, because his will do the same. She is right and he knows it. As soon as he would pull the trigger, Moriarty will shoot him up right after, stab him, gut him, cook him, blind him, mutilate and torture and burn him alive, but what happens when he does not? They are doomed, both of them, together in the end after all.</p><p>The towering terror of what is to come does its part in numbing him. Stillness, even for a little second, before the despair that is to wreak havoc upon him.</p><p>It is enough.</p><p>The blood that fills the cracks between the floorboards is that of two people, even though there is still only one body lying upon them, but nobody will ever know that. The ring in his ears does nothing to drown out her voice in his head. <em>Let‘s get a coffee some time</em>, he thinks.</p><p>The green fabric turns a muddy brown and he turns away.</p><p>Moriarty's hand is outstretched. Carefully he places his own death into it.</p><p>"Kneel."</p><p><em> I love you</em>, he thinks as he sinks to his knees. The blood soaks up into his trousers instantly. It is warm.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading :) means a lot to me.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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